


Snakebite

by ClockworkCourier



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Bad Flirting, F/M, Flirting, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Female Character, Snakes, Teasing, Tumblr Prompt, improper first aid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 22:59:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: The snake is gone. Slithered away, that is, back into the brush and dust. Arthur's said it wasn’t worth chasing after, especially after you (perhaps dramatically) announced that you’d been bitten. You’re no expert on the subject of herpetology, but it’s only taken a little reading and a few choice observations of those poor sons of guns at the doctor to know that there are any number of venomous species out there in the scrublands; copperheads, rattlesnakes, vipers, and the like. Personally, you’ve never been bitten, so your knowledge of symptoms is based almost entirely on what you’ve read and seen. That being said, those books and accounts haven't helped much, considering most of them end in delightful phrases like 'difficulty breathing', 'swelling', or 'possible death'.Actually, you don’t know if your symptoms are from the bite itself, or your raw, unrestrained panic.- - -Arthur does some good old fashioned field first aid.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr [here](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com/post/180620949016/hewwo-are-you-up-for-rdr2-requests-may-i-have) as a lovely request from the amazing [cryptcombat](http://cryptcombat.tumblr.com/). i had a request to have this and its companion piece up on AO3, so tadaaaa! 
> 
> blah blah i do not condone sucking out snake venom. please seek first aid if you go stomping around rattlesnaketown.
> 
> (actually i'm v v shy on reader inserts so hhh i hope you guys like this, even as just like a fun lil fluff thing. ;w;)

“Aw, it ain’t so bad,” Arthur says. Or, you  _think_  he says, as it’s hard to hear him over the sound of your own quick gasps and the tumult of panicked thoughts running as wild as Mustangs in your head. You’re aware that he’s just barely touching your ankle, his right hand hovering over it, unsure. Only vaguely do you consider that he might think the gesture to be improper. At that moment, however, you’re far more certain that you’re about to die a slow and painful death with Arthur as your only witness. 

The snake is gone. Slithered away, that is, back into the brush and dust. Arthur's said it wasn’t worth chasing after, especially after you (perhaps dramatically) announced that you’d been bitten. You’re no expert on the subject of herpetology, but it’s only taken a little reading and a few choice observations of those poor sons of guns at the doctor to know that there are any number of venomous species out there in the scrublands; copperheads, rattlesnakes, vipers, and the like. Personally, you’ve never been bitten, so your knowledge of symptoms is based almost entirely on what you’ve read and seen. That being said, those books and accounts haven't helped much, considering most of them end in delightful phrases like 'difficulty breathing', 'swelling', or 'possible death'.

Actually, you don’t know if your symptoms are from the bite itself, or your raw, unrestrained panic.

“I’m gonna  _die,_ ” you helpfully inform Arthur. By now, he has this strained look on his face, half hidden by the brim of his hat. “I’m gonna die out here in the middle of nowhere and the coyotes are going to eat my body and–”

“Coyotes are not gonna eat you,” Arthur replies. He's abandoned propriety and is rolling down your stocking, mindful of the bite. It doesn’t  _look_  awful. If anything, it looks more like a rash. His hands (large, warm, calloused– no, ma'am,  _stop_  thinking about that; you’re dying) go over the bite, carefully assessing it with a good deal of gentleness.

Never you mind that it’s blisteringly hot and you’re in a set panic. “Oh God, Arthur. I feel faint,” you tell him. 

“Just hold on a second,” he says. Then, he spares a quick, thoughtful glance out at the scrub around you. “You know, I don’t even think the little feller was venomous.”

“It  _bit_  me!”

“Lots of things can bite ya and not mean a thing by it. Hell,  _I_ could bite ya and it wouldn’t kill you.”

_Please do,_  says a very,  _very_  traitorous part of your mind that is either delirious from your oncoming demise, or has just been there all along since you and Arthur became acquainted. Either way, its commentary isn’t welcome when you’re about to meet the good Lord, or maybe the devil, depending on how the great cosmos views your lifestyle choices.

When you say nothing, Arthur finally sighs and kneels down on the ground in front of you, gently lifting your ankle up to get a better look at it. “Listen. I don’t got much on me to help ya ‘til we get to Valentine, but I can try,” he says. And because clearly you’re delirious from being on the shore of the Styx, you  _think_  you see a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The moment he presses his lips to your ankle, you’re suddenly all too prepared to do a backstroke through the Styx and kiss the ferryman while you’re at it.

You feel a gentle pressure on the wound and realize he’s sucking the venom out. Although, he’s not putting in as much effort as you think should be warranted by a life or death situation. In fact, he goes on for so long that you have a mind to tell him you think you're safe, but that little traitor part of you is enjoying this  _immensely_. 

And–  _Oh._  Oh, you really don’t think it’s necessary to keep this up above the bite mark, but there he goes. His lips go up your calf, to your knee, lingering there for a moment before his eyes (the color of goddamn  _sea glass;_ how the hell does he get away with a pair of gems like that in his occupation) flicker up to look at you. Then, he rests his chin on your knee and grins like he means to put the coyotes to shame. 

“Think you’re in the clear,” he intones with all of his medical expertise. “If ya start feelin’ sorry again, let me know.”

After a couple verbal false starts, all you manage is, “Mr. Morgan, I daresay I’m feelin’ pretty light headed still.”

In a perfect world where roughened outlaw men with pretty eyes and hearts of gold actually do precisely what you’d like them to, he would kiss you. That's what Mary Beth's novels say, and what you've come to enjoy in your daydreams. You’d say something infinitely clever about how you think the snake got you on the lips or the neck or some body part you’d like to see him perform his practice on. Unfortunately, this isn’t a perfect world, and Arthur Morgan is a goddamn  _tease_. He just keeps grinning, takes off his hat, and drops it on your head instead. It’s too big on you, and droops over your forehead so you can only see the upturned line of his mouth. 

“Then let’s get you out of the sun, huh?” he says, helping you to your feet and minding you all the way back to your horse.

Oh, damn Arthur Morgan. Damn him properly.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been a few weeks since the snakebite incident, and after Arthur dutifully escorted you back to camp, it’s been something of a running joke between the two of you. Or, more accurately, it’s become a joke for him the same way he jokes about Marston’s swimming ability, because it’s definitely at your expense. 

“I wouldn’t walk too far out there,” he says one day as you head out into the woods west of the Overlook camp. You have a wicker basket hooked at your elbow, the bottom covered with a calico cloth so you can gather raspberries and currants. At first, you’re confused, because everyone goes out to the woods for all manner of reasons, and the only thing beyond them is the burnt husk of Limpany and the railroad tracks. Then, you see that smile start to form at the corner of his mouth, and you can practically  _feel_  the response before he says it. “I’ve seen a couple of snakes out there, and I’m headin’ into Valentine so I can’t run in and rescue you if somethin’ happens.”

You feel your face get warm at the insinuation, and spend a few moments trying to form a retort. “Mr. Morgan,” you start, but he cuts you off with a low scrape of laugh on top of an honest to goodness smile that makes that warmth spread from your face to every part of you. 

“Just lookin’ out for ya,” he says, patting you on the back before he makes his way over to the hitching posts.

Damn him. He’s not going to get  _any_  of the absolutely incredible pie that you and Pearson plan to make. None at all, for that behavior.

\- - -

He makes another joke later in the night, after the sun has gone down and everyone is snoozing off their dinner. Arthur is sitting on top of a crate at the fire, one leg bent over the other, his plate balanced on his knee as he polishes off the rest of the slice of pie that Pearson gave him, since betrayal knows no limitations. You walk up after helping Abigail with some of the washing, wiping your hands on your apron, just in time to hear the tail end of a conversation he’s having with Hosea and John.

“—probably about two feet long. Pattern was kinda funny, though,” Arthur says, gesturing in the air with his fork. 

“Sure it wasn’t a rattler?” John says from his spot on the ground.

“Well, golly, Marston. I sure as hell can’t tell the difference between a snake that makes noise and one that don’t!”

Hosea wheezes out a laugh while John tries to stammer out a retort. Then, Arthur catches sight of you, his eyes bright in the firelight. You know from the moment you see his smile that he’s about to say something at your expense again, and all you can do is brace yourself and smile like you have no idea that it’s coming.

“Hey, there’s our resident reptile expert!” Arthur says, as content as a cat in a sunbeam. “Hosea and I saw a snake earlier, and we've been tryin' to figure out what it was. Thought since you’ve got more experience with ‘em—” He doesn't finish his sentence, but instead raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

That heat comes back to your face, but you’re more focused on the look he’s giving you. There’s a light in his eyes that you’re not accustomed to seeing. He looks like he’s just a moment from laughing, and part of you (no;  _all_  of you, if you’re being honest) wants to see him like this all of the time. That brings about your response of, “Of course,” as you sit down on the log beside Hosea, who regards you by tipping his hat. “Although, Mr. Morgan might have more experience than he lets on.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

“Hosea,” you start, turning toward the man in question. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but is there somethin’ to removing snake venom that requires puttin’ pressure on spots 'round the bite wound itself?”

Hosea blinks, then looks up thoughtfully. “I suppose… Well, it depends on where the wound is, don’t it?”

“On the ankle, perhaps.”

You can see the corners of Hosea's mouth start to twitch up just as it Arthur's do the opposite. “Nah, I don't think it requires that kind of treatment,” he says, and then looks to Arthur. “Ain’t that right, Arthur? Leg’s pretty good in one spot if you’re quick enough.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur replies, suddenly very interested in his remaining piece of pie, which he spears more times than necessary. The tines of his fork scrape against the plate.

You make a great show of feigning confusion, eyes wide, frown set, and head tilted. “Well, then Mr. Morgan must not have been quick enough. He was puttin’ pressure on all kinds of places.”

Arthur nearly chokes on his pie while Hosea bursts into laughter and John looks between the three of you with pure bewilderment. It makes you break your facade and laugh just as hard as Hosea. 

At ends, once Arthur’s reassured you that he’s not going to die an early death from aspirating on a pastry, you stand up and smooth out your dress. “Sorry fellas,” you finally say with a smile, holding back another round of laughter. “I’m afraid Mr. Morgan’s perjured himself here. I’m not quite the expert he makes me out to be.”

“My apologies for that,” Arthur manages to reply, his voice raspy. He pointedly doesn’t look at Hosea or John. There’s that curve to Arthur’s mouth again, though, and that doesn’t bode well in the long run. “Though if you need to gather more field expertise, I’m always happy to offer my services.”

Hosea turns his laugh into a cough into his sleeve, while John damn near rolls his eyes into the back of his head. 

“I’m sure you are,” you reply, and smile back at him as politely as possible. “Have a good night, boys.”

You turn back to your tent, and although you can’t hear the specifics, you’re happy to hear the sound of John and Hosea giving Arthur a hard time. Serves him right.

\- - -  
  
Sleep doesn't come easy, and part of that might be because Swanson and Uncle are having a competition to see who can wake the whole camp up with their snoring. They sound like a pair of competing lumber mills.

The other reason is that you keep revisiting your conversation with Arthur, and the experience of him pressing his lips to your ankle, your calf, and your knee. In your mind’s eye, you can see his eyes, bright as embers, glinting at you, mischievous and wonderful. You can see that cockeyed grin of his, and somehow, you can hear and feel his voice, deep and honey warm. You feel the rough texture of his hand on the back of your leg, brushing over your skin with deliberate carefulness, the trigger-callous on his thumb brushing small, comforting circles. In the hazy light of the Heartlands, cicadas droning and crickets creaking in the sagebrush, he seems like a mirage unto himself, promising something that you can't have.

This man is a goddamn  _curse_ , and you’re not going to get any rest until you settle this.

Quietly, you get up, channeling a cat walking on mist-quiet feet. You’re mindful of the people you step over, doing your best not to flinch or make noises of disgust when your bare feet meet packed earth and pockets of mud. No one would mind you much anyway, since people get up at all odd hours to take watch or do their bodily business out in the woods. However, your purpose is a little more weighted, and you really don’t want anyone to notice how you make for Arthur’s wagon like a bandit in the night, bandits though you all are.

Three panels of canvas have been sewed onto his wagon as the temperature's dropped, and thankfully, they've been pulled down to block against the winds that come off the valley at the base of the Overlook. There’s a single kerosene lantern hanging from a hook, and its dim light flickers, beckoning.  _Come. On! Come. On!_  you imagine it saying, enough that you believe you really are sleep deprived.

This is a necessity, then, for your sanity’s sake.

As quietly and carefully as you can, you slip through the slit in the canvas, into the tiny, cramped space Arthur calls home in a camp where private space is already at a premium. He’s sleeping on his stomach, head turned towards the wagon, arms tucked underneath the flattened pillow. He’s stripped down to a plain gray undershirt, and his quilt has been kicked nearly to the bottom of the bed, bunched up precariously near the edge. In the dim light, you can see that his hair is a tangled mess, and that charming romantic novel heroine in you wants to smooth it out and stroke it to see if it really is as soft as it looks. Then again, this man rolls in mud and sweats under his hat all day, so your fantasies may be a bit dreamier than you’d like to admit.

At the very least, you pull the quilt up over his back, and that’s enough to stir him.

He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, snuffling like a hound, before rolling onto his side and looking up at you in a squint. “Huh?” is all he has the mind to say.

You gather up any shred of bravado you have, which isn’t a great deal. Then, you kneel beside him on the cold packed dirt, hands in your lap, calling to mind every good actress you’ve ever seen on a stage. “Arthur,” you whisper. “I’m real sorry to wake you, but I— Oh, it’s  _terrible._ ”

Even in the darkness, you see his eyes widen, and suddenly he’s sitting up in bed. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?” he asks in a normal speaking voice, and you quickly hush him.

“No, no, I don’t want to worry anyone,” you say softly, still keeping up the act as best you can. You even splay your hand out on your chest, like you mean to give the most moving monologue. “It’s just… Oh, Arthur, I’m afraid I’ve been so damn clumsy. I went out into the woods, and I—” You make a show of sniffing like you’re holding back tears, drawing your other hand up to press the back of it against your lips, and there’s a little thrill that goes through you when you feel him reach out to put a hand on your shoulder, like he’s aiming to physically support you. “I’ve been bitten again,” you finally say in a soft, sad gasp.

He’s silent. You can only hear his breathing, measured, careful. Then, in a low scratch of his voice that sparks something in you like steel on flint, he asks, “ _Where?_ ”

Saint's be praised, it’s exactly what you’d hope he would ask, and you wonder if he can see your smile in the dark. Slowly, you maneuver yourself to sit on the edge of his bed, watching his silhouette against the canvas like a picture show. You can see him breathing, can watch the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest, and you wonder what it would be like to rest your head on it, to hear his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his skin.

Mary Beth’s influence is rubbing off on you. She’d be so proud.

You reach out to him, taking one of his hands in his. It’s just as warm and calloused as you remember, happily recalling that hand on your ankle, and how gentle he was. You take it in yours and he allows you to move it up to a spot on the left side of your neck, right where your pulse is fluttering like a dove in anticipation. “Here,” you whisper. You move his hand to your cheek. “And here.” Then, like the bona fide genius you are, you allow his fingers to brush against your lips. “And here.”

It’s so quiet that you can hear Arthur swallow. He opens his mouth once, shuts it, and tries again before he says, in the voice of your damn dreams, “That’s one agile snake.”

You smile, and then Arthur moves forward, reverently pressing his lips to your neck. 

It takes a good deal of self control not to outright moan, to make all manner of sounds and wake the whole camp up just from one little instance of contact. Then again, you’ve been waiting and wishing for this for ages now, and you want to sashay and twirl your way to the middle of the camp to announce to people as far away as Valentine that Arthur Morgan feels something for you, too. That thought feels damn good.

But not as good as his mouth on your skin. He leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down your neck to your shoulder, and then along the neckline of your chemise. You breathe in deeply, smelling the every present campfire smoke, sweat, and fresh hay, and you commit that into your mind, even if it isn't the heady scent described in all those novels. Then again, none of them had ever taken place in an outlaw camp. 

His hands move up to your waist, and then he’s pulling you towards his lap. You do allow yourself a soft sigh as he kisses his way back up to a spot below your jaw, right at its curve. There, he kisses, and you feel the telltale pressure of him sucking at the skin.

“Oh,  _damn,_ ” you whisper. He’s leaving a mark. He’s going to let the whole world know what he’s done, and you want to pin him to his cot and ravish him until sunrise at the mere concept.

Then one of his hands roams up to your breasts, resting on the right, thumb just brushing over the nipple through the fabric.

Forget  _wanting_  to pin him to the cot. You’re going to, and he’s just going to have to be happy with what he gets. 

Your hands find his shoulders, and one gentle push is all it takes to get him to laugh and fall back on the pillow. You waste no time straddling him, your hands braced on either side of his head, watching the pale glint in his eyes as he looks up at you like he’s never quite seen you before. His hands are on your waist again, settling on your hips. The kerosene lantern light through the canvas makes strangeness out of the shadows, and you don't know if it's completely to blame for the mischief you see in his smile.

“Did I get it all out?” he asks.

“Almost,” you say. “You missed a spot.”

You lean down and kiss him like you've dreamed. You’re chest to chest, and his arms go up to hold you there, embracing you. One hand moves up to the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair. His mouth moves against yours, hardly gentle, but rather like a man that’s clear run out of patience. The part of your brain that can still be logical at a moment like this reminds you with due celebration that this might just mean he’s thought about this for a while now.

He tastes of sleep, which normally wouldn’t be too pleasant, but you’re far too happy with the situation to care. He opens his mouth against yours, deepening the kiss in huge measures, distracting you with his tongue so that you barely register that you’re rubbing yourself against him like you aim to start a fire between you. When you realize this, you make a soft sound of surprise against his lips, and you feel him laugh in this lovely low vibration in your chest.

Reluctantly, you separate, but only just far enough that you can still feel his warm breath fanning against your cheek. “You got the vigor of someone who’s gonna survive,” he says thoughtfully. The hand still on your waist rubs up and down, then in soothing circles on your back. “I’d say you’re cured, ma’am.”

You smile and kiss at the underside of his jaw, on the stubble of at least half a week of growth. “Mmm, not quite,” you say. “It was a… Oh, how do I put this? A very,  _very_  enterprising snake.”

“ _Oh,_ ” you hear him breathe. 

“Mhmm. And, well, I  _just_  can’t take care of that particular problem myself. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—”

You don’t get another word out before Arthur surges up to kiss you again, knocking your foreheads together and laughing against you. Again, you’re too distracted to really notice the way he flips the two of you over so that he’s on top, until he breaks the kiss to move down your body. The moment you feel him push the fabric of your chemise up to your hips and settle himself between your knees, you know that any encounter you have with any human being other than Arthur Morgan is going to have to compete with this. He’s setting your new standard, and you've got no reason to complain.

He spreads you with his fingers, mindful and careful, his left arm hooking around the bottom of your thigh so that his left hand can rest comfortably on your hip. You can feel him hesitate, can  _feel_  him breathe against your sex, and you can feel how wet you already are just from anticipation. You smile and reach out to rest your hand over his, squeezing it once to encourage him.

You only just dwell on the knowledge that he’s done this before, because any other thought is put out like a candle in a rainstorm when he licks your slit, lathing the flat of his tongue over you, taking the time to really taste you. Then, you feel his index finger move to brush over your clit, which causes a shudder that you aren't prepared for. It's different when someone else does it, as you've never been so sensitive to... well, yourself. Hell, you've even boredly touched yourself before just for lack of things to do. He smiles and brushes quickstep circles around it, not quite touching it directly, because not for the first or last time, he's a damn tease.

“Oh, God,” you whisper, your voice strained.

He lifts his head up just enough to say, “Just Arthur’ll do,” in a voice like a curl of smoke before he begins licking you in earnest. 

The next few minutes go by like a torture, with him fucking you with his tongue, licking your clit, then pressing two of his fingers into you and gently thrusting and pulling back in a careful rhythm, pausing only to curl them inside of you like he means to coax you to come for him from the inside out. At one point, he switches it up so that his tongue circles your opening, and that same trigger callous on his thumb brushes quickly against your clit, using that texture for the good of everything. It’s almost purely the contact with him that draws your orgasm up like he’s got you on a hook and reel, starting up that hot, flickering coil in your belly. You’ve wanted this so badly, waited what seems like an eon for it, dreamt of it. Now it’s finally come, and you realize you were in no way fully prepared. In the future, which now seems hopeful and gloriously bright, you hope that this gets more drawn out, that he can lead you up and down the path of pleasure until you're delirious and begging. 

Years of having to stifle the sounds of your own pleasure allows you to come almost silently, mouth open, eyes squeezed shit, hips arched. You shudder, stiffen, and ride that crest of white-out pleasure that he draws from you. He coaxes you through it, having switched once more so his fingers are flexing slowly inside of you, his tongue drawing small circles around and below your clit to avoid overwhelming you. It’s perfectly gentle and thoughtful, and somehow, that makes your orgasm all the more glorious, like a damn near religious experience.

When it’s over, you feel like you could just live on that cot for the rest of your life, spending each day until the end of time in a state of drowsy euphoria. Judgement Day will come and the triumphing angels are going to find you with your chemise hiked up and a sleepy grin on your face. 

Arthur moves upwards to kiss you, his erection pressing against the thin fabric of his pants, a warm weight against the inside of your right thigh. Then, he starts to get off of you, and your smile fades a bit. “What are you doin’?” you ask.

“Lettin’ you sleep it off,” he replies, but it's pitched up at the end like a question, as if he’s unsure that he's done the right thing. “I can leave if ya want. I'll just grab the bedroll off the saddle and—”

The thought of him leaving you on  _his_  bed, in  _his_  tent, attached to  _his_  wagon so that you can sleep makes you almost laugh out loud. It’s so considerate that it bypasses adorable and goes right to idiotic. “Arthur,” you say, reaching up to brush your hand over his cheek. “I want you here. I just thought you were gonna…”

Well, you’re not as bawdy as the other girls, but the silence is filled in by the obvious.

“Oh,” he says. And then, quieter, “ _Ohhh._ ”

“I mean, if you want,” you add, running your thumb over his cheekbone. 

“I wasn’t gonna… I didn’t wanna  _presume_ ,” he starts.

“Lord have mercy, Arthur. Did you really think I came in here just to get my pleasure and leave ya high and dry?”

He clears his throat and lowers his head.

“ _Jesus_ , Arthur,” you say, happily exasperated. “And you call Marston dumb.”

He nearly retorts, but you lean up to kiss him again, and you think that those dirtier novels that Mary Beth thinks she hid so well are right—you absolutely can taste yourself on his lips. You lower your head back to the pillow as he deepens the kiss. He only pauses once to ask you if you’re sure, do you want this, is this  _really_  want you want—

“Arthur Morgan, for the love of all that’s good and holy, get your pants off and fuck me.”

Well, maybe you are as bawdy as the girls and this as just been your initiation. Arthur makes a strained sound, a fine cross between amused and surprised before he's maneuvering himself enough to pull his pants off without having to get off the bed entirely. They’re tossed off to the side, followed by his shirt, and then you get at least half your wish of being able to touch his chest. There’s a sheen of sweat, the small patches of fine hairs, the hard planes of muscle, and then, just under your fingertips, the rapid drumbeat of his heart.

Then, you feel his cock press against you, and slide in without a single bit of resistance. If there’s really a heaven, you’re awfully close to it.

He fucks you slowly, ad in his own way, as considerately as he can. His sounds of pleasure are as muted as yours, presumably from growing up close quarters with the gang and having to keep himself quiet. Still, he sighs and gasps against your neck as the thrusts. You're simply happy to hold him against you, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair and smiling to find that it’s actually fairly soft like you'd hoped. 

You aren’t sure how long this goes on, because not much else matters in the world other than the feeling of Arthur in you and around you. He’s a presence unto himself, warm and gentle, and more kind than any one man has the right to be. His thrusts are slow but deep, and he kisses you in just the same way. It might be your sleeplessness, the post-orgasm bliss, or all those fantastic feelings running through you like strands of silk in a loom, making the full picture of how you feel about him; but you can only think of him like standing in awe of a sunrise, feeling that first warmth of daylight after a bleak and frigid night, and watching its brilliance make art of the sky. You want to experience it over and over, like seeing the infinite ways a sunrise changes, how no two are alike. You want it, maybe a little selfishly, all to yourself.

He reaches down between you to pull out as he comes against the inside of your thigh. His sounds are strained, like staccato gasps that he can barely control. His forehead presses against your shoulder, and he moans against your skin, shuddering as he does so. Then, slowly, it ebbs until he’s left a tired, happy weight on top of you. 

You know you have to get cleaned up, to sort yourself out and sneak back to your bedroll and hope that no one’s caught on or woken up to the sound of you and Arthur settling your tensions. You  _know_  this, but you can’t bring yourself to do more than wrap your arms around Arthur, letting him rest his head against your chest in a sort of inverse of the rest of your wish, and revel in the fact that he’s here, and  _you’re_  here, and things just seem right. You'll get to it when the time comes, and when you're more inclined to reach across that absolute massive crevasse to grab a flannel rag off of his end table.

His voice is a low rumble against you when he asks, “Feel better?”

You laugh. You can’t help it. The world, for once in your life, seems perfect. “Much better, Mr. Morgan,” you say before pressing your lips to his forehead.

\- - -

And in the morning, when you’re helping set up breakfast and Abigail throws you that knowing look, clearly looking at that bruise on your neck, you can’t help but grin at her.

“Snake bite,” you say. “It was an emergency.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://radiojamming.tumblr.com)


End file.
